


I Will Wait

by 13thDoctor



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Bittersweet, Canon-Typical Violence, First Kiss, Grumpy Thorin, Happy Ending, Hurt Bilbo, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Rivendell, Thorin plays the harp, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-06 16:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13thDoctor/pseuds/13thDoctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Orcs and Wargs attack the company in the Hidden Pass, Bilbo is taken captive. The Dwarves move on to Rivendell and wait for the Hobbit, and it is in that period of waiting that Thorin realizes his true feelings for Bilbo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Wait

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first, but hopefully not last, Bagginshield fic. Unbeta'd. Let me know what you think in the comments!

Day One

Terrible laughter and ravenous howls filled the air as the Orc pack circled the dwarves. Outnumbered and exhausted, they braced for battle with little hope. Amid the loud crashes of metal weapons and Warg growls, Bilbo dug his bare feet into the upturned earth, gulping for air as if each breath could be his last. He supposed it was a true thought, and steadied his body from fainting at the realization.

A dead silence suddenly filled the land as the Orcs readied their attack. Then, from behind the travelers, “In here, you fools!”

The grotesque beasts hissed and yowled as the dwarves scattered, fleeing and fighting their way to the passageway. Thorin leapt onto a large boulder and urged his company forward. They slid unceremoniously, but safely, into the tunnel. He counted all in a rushed, gruff whisper until all were inside.

All but one.

“Bilbo!” he shouted. The Hobbit remained in the field, planted still with wide eyes and white knuckles as he clutched his miniscule sword.

The grimy face turned back to answer, outlined by the approach of a Warg rider. He was shaking. Thorin strained to hear the words but caught none of them as he was dragged into the pass by Dwalin; the warrior fisted his king’s tunic and threw him back roughly.

“No!” Thorin scrambled to return, but the dwarf’s grip was too strong. “Release me!”

“Enough!” Gandalf yelled. The clamor immediately fell mute. Thorin turned to him, his gaze dark. His fingers twitched toward the dagger in his belt.

“If you would stop for a moment,” the wizard began with a huff, “you would hear the Elvish hunting party above us. I’m sure they have taken our burglar into their care.” He gestured to the lit hole; the sound of arrows and hooves was unmistakable.

Thorin shook Dwalin away with an angry exhale. Fíli and Kíli glanced nervously at each other and then their uncle, afraid that further restraint would be needed.

“You had best be right,” the dwarf king muttered. He cleared his throat and stood to his full height, ashamed by his outburst. He shouldered his axe and spoke once again to Gandalf. “You led us to the Elves.”

The wizard nodded gravely. His old eyes flicked back and forth between Thorin and the pass’ opening.

Thorin scowled. He gritted his teeth and set his jaw with distaste before addressing his company. They knew not to trouble him then; the extent of his wrath would be dreadful. “Let us rejoin the Hobbit,” he grunted.

They started down the path to Rivendell.

…

“He’s not here,” Thorin observed. He had wondered the halls and paths of Rivendell for hours, even daring to adventure in the surrounding forest. Bilbo was lost, as confirmed by Elrond and his party at supper.

“We saw one take a prisoner, though we mistook the Halfling for a dwarf at the time. I apologize for my bluntness, Master Dwarf, but you may consider him dead. Orcs rarely take captives, and if so it is simply for torture or… amusement. The Wargs or their riders will devour him in the end.”

            Thorin shifted uncomfortably in the ornate seat. Balin looked at their leader with a somber expression as he struggled with the information.

            “I… will not risk the company for the sake of one hobbit,” he decided. The words seemed forced, and he felt as if he was choking on them. They were sick words, full of malice and coldness, none of which he felt for their thirteenth member.

            The finality of his choice struck him and he pushed his plate away, disgusted. “He may still be alive,” he suggested, pleading silently to Gandalf. “He shall have escaped; he is quick on his feet and keen not to die.” Hope blossomed in his chest and he stood. “We shall wait here for the burglar.”

            Gandalf, Balin, and Elrond began to protest immediately, sparking a cacophony of disagreement. Thorin held fast to his decree. He left the elders discussing him to alert the rest of his company of the plan.

            Then, he went for a walk.

…

The tunnel was unfamiliar in darkness. It echoed with Thorin’s curses as he stumbled over rocks and crevices. The gravel dusted his boots and stuck in his hair whenever he fell. He was glad that the others had stayed behind; the undignified manner in which he walked would have been cause for ridicule for years to come. His journey was loud- his heavy stride, clanging weapons, and rough Khuzdul obscenities punctuated the cavern constantly. The whole affair was ridiculous, and his was dedicated to a task that would likely yield no result but heartache.

He pressed on diligently.

Breathing heavily, he emerged from the Hidden Pass and surveyed the valley. Not a sound greeted him in the night. He looked to the spot where he had last set eyes on his companion, suddenly overcome with grief.

He rushed to the small patch of grass in which the Hobbit once stood, a cry escaping his lips before he could bite the frailty back. Helplessly, he searched the ground for answers, for signs, for anything. He pulled at the vegetation, scraped it away until his hands were bloody from the sharp edges of rocks and covered in dirt. It was a fruitless effort that only provided him with more pain.

Thorin looked up at the sky and growled lowly, threating his enemies, wherever they hid. The clouds parted to reveal a full moon, glowing white like the Arkenstone.

The light spilled over his body, creating silver pools where dirt and blood had mixed to create gruesome mud. It continued past his face, caressing the lines and hurt, before moving to shine on an object previously unseen by the future king.

A single button of Bilbo’s lay against the valley. The metal was worn, but the acorn design and clear hobbit craftsmanship alerted him of its owner instantly.

Thorin scooped it up carefully. He whispered a prayer to Mahal and thanked the moon for his discovery. Gingerly, he unclasped his necklace and laid it in his palm. The button he slid onto it, next to a bead from each member of his family.

He returned to Rivendell with lightness in his heart, ready to partake in a second walk in the next night. Hope filled him and only increased upon the discovery of the prophecy of Durin’s Day.

Surely if a button could turn up, a Hobbit would, too.

…

Day Two

His head ached, his body was sore, and his mind was filled with unease. The company disputed his proposal endlessly the night he had made it, but the agreement became mutual once an offer of food, drink, and warm beds came.

In the morning, however, the dwarves were less than kind about Thorin’s stubbornness.

“We’ll never make it to Erebor in time if we stay here.”

“I haven’t eaten any real food in a whole day!”

“Elves are a nasty bunch; can’t we just go?”

“The lad’s dead, we shouldn’t be waiting for ‘im.”

“Waiting fer a ghost, ya mean.”

            “Silence!” Thorin bellowed. He brought his fist to the table and his company flinched at the impact. “We leave when we have our burglar. I said I would not risk our lives for him, and we aren’t. We’re simply waiting.”

            The protests began again, louder than before. Axes were thumped against the stone floor in the dwarves’ impatience. Eleven frustrated, bearded men looked at him, some with pity and others with mutiny. He disliked both.

            Bofur shouted for quiet and they settled down begrudgingly. He met Thorin’s gaze and held it. “If Thorin wants to stay here, then I shall, too. Bilbo means something to all of us, right? And we need him if we want to get past that dragon. Thorin’s the king, and I trust him, as should you.”

            He finished his speech and blushed. Bombur handed him a glass of wine, which he accepted gladly as he sat. His brother patted him on the arm and nodded encouragingly.

            “Many thanks, my friend.” Thorin smiled gratefully. He clapped his calloused hands together to relieve their tension. “Now, I’m going hunting. Who’s with me?”

The company cheered.

…

The tunnel was not as difficult to pass through on his second night. The natural traps it had laid were familiar now. Its stone maze was simple to navigate for a dwarf who had grown in a mountain with for more mysterious and winding passages.

He was still unaccustomed to the sting in his chest whenever he beheld the place of Bilbo’s fall. He traced the grass he had so carelessly desecrated, bile rising in his throat. The Orcs would pay for taking him. He imagined slaying the brutes; swinging Orcrist to decapitate Azog and then slowly felling each until the land ran with their disgusting entrails and blood. He grinned smugly at the image before moving to another fantasy.

He paced along the valley, memorizing it as he went. His mind, however, lingered on the image of Bilbo, safe in his arms. He would revel in the king’s pride after the slaughter; Thorin would carry him to Rivendell and the company would rejoice. Embraces would be shared, a feast made, and Bilbo celebrated like a king.

Once their adventure came to an end, Thorin would make him one.

He looked back fondly on the valley before retreating to the Elvish haven. Sleep did not come easily, as it had not since Bilbo’s disappearance.

But his dreams were filled with gold and a certain hobbit, and they sat upon thrones together as all five kingdoms admired them. Thorin reached over and grasped Bilbo’s hand in his own, laying a light but fond kiss to a handcrafted silver ring that the Hobbit wore.

In his sleep, Thorin smiled.

…

Day Three

“May I ask you how long you intend to remain in Rivendell?” Elrond inquired. Thorin jumped. He had not heard the elf enter the room.

The king tore his gaze from the balcony’s view of the sunset and obliged the elf. “Lord Elrond,” he greeted. “I suppose you are revoking your hospitality?”

Elrond seemed to choose his words carefully. “I will never refuse aide to those in need, to those who are friends.” He strode to the golden fence of the balcony, his robe trailing like water behind him. “But,” he continued slowly, “Rivendell is not your home, and we cannot help you on your quest. My kin as well as my kitchen are feeling the weight of your stay.” His eyes twinkled with amusement.

Thorin looked out to the dark purple sky and nodded politely. “I understand.” He met the elf’s eyes. “But you must understand that I cannot leave without the company being complete.”

Elrond sighed heavily. He moved to clasp Thorin on the shoulder before deciding against the action, instead grasping the lean fingers behind his back. “I told you the day you arrived to consider him lost, did I not?”

“Yes,” Thorin answered gruffly. His voice held warning.

“And you care not for the advice of one so wise?”

“I prefer to trust my own judgment over that of the elves.”

“Do not mistake me for my woodland kin, master dwarf. Thranduil turned from you but I brought you graciously into my home. Do not belittle my kindness.” He seemed aggravated by the comparison, and Thorin felt slightly guilty. But the elf lord had also given up on Bilbo, and Thorin could not.

“Allow us one more night, I beg of you,” Thorin plead. “I know he still lives.”

Elrond blinked delicately as he viewed Thorin. The dwarf wore his hair in many black braids, and the free mane was streaked with silver. He was garbed in a simple blue nightshirt and deerskin leggings. His only adornments were a ring, leather belt, and necklace.

A certain object on the chain caught the elf’s keen eye. He scrutinized it from afar, knowing what an insult it would be to touch the king’s jewelry.

 “Your love for Bilbo Baggins will only bring sorrow,” Elrond warned.

…

The nights had grown colder since the company’s arrival. The Hidden Valley was no stranger to the chill; its grass was constantly dancing in the unrelenting winds. Thorin shivered and pulled his fur vest closed. Though dwarves ran hotter than most, a slight frost still provided discomfort.

There were few stars in the sky as he made his way around the hills and curves of the land. He knew the valley’s exact shape by now; every small slope or forlorn rock was ingrained deep in his memory.

The circumstances of his memorization seized his heart once more. He gasped audibly and seized the cloth over his chest. He shook again, but not from the cold. His pain was greater than that.

Wind danced over his face and brushed through his hair, carrying the black strands into a tangle. If he listened closely enough, the air would whisper his burglar’s name. If would carry his voice back, and perhaps his body, too. Foolishly, he hoped and wept that Bilbo would return.

He had made a full circle before he realized it. He looked back. Imprints of thick soled boots lay behind him and disappeared over a small boulder. Before him was the secret pass.

The dwarf looked once more into the heart of the greying valley, willing it to grant his wish. The desolate surface gave not a single sound nor figure. No lost Hobbit came, smiling and laughing at the foolish, brawny company. No Hobbit came to climb into his arms and have the danger and hurt kissed away by a king.

Unsatisfied and aching, he turned away.

…

Day Four

The company usually packed with energy and glee, ready for the next adventure and laden with the promise of supplies and safety. That afternoon, however, was a melancholy one. Thorin did not speak, and no one expected him to. The decision to move on was a final acceptance of Bilbo’s death, and it settled in every dwarfs’ heart like stone.

As soon as Thorin’s bag was ready he refused to watch the proceedings. He traveled alone around Rivendell, casting a dark and foreboding presence wherever he stood. His gaze was hard and sad, eyes filled with the blank numbness of loss.

He hardly ate breakfast and skipped lunch altogether. Supper he shoveled down violently before rushing off for one last walk. Fíli and Kíli stood to chase him, but Balin halted them with a raised hand.

“Your uncle has one last thing to do, boys. Here, help me clean and then we can all have a smoke before we get going.”

…

Thorin tore through the pass with rage, tears burning in his eyes but not falling. He screamed in agony at his gods and his naïve hope. What kind of king was he, failing his company for the deluded return of a single Halfling? He uttered the worst curses his tongue knew, spitting them across the mouth of the pass as he climbed it.

The wind howled like Wargs, alerting him that a storm was not far off. He squinted into the darkness, afraid to venture further and lose himself in the inevitable tempest.

A mound moved in the night, flailing against the sudden downpour of rain. Thorin extended tacit sympathies to the pathetic creature before turning to the pass. He would rejoin his company and they would brave the weather on the mountains.

A sudden gust of wind threw him down and he grunted. He lifted his head, once again drawn to the poor creature struggling in the night. The wind seemed to push him to it, pulling at his hair and whipping his braids in the direction of the helpless one.

Thorin gathered his strength and launched himself to his feet. The wind moved with his running body, adding speed to the rescue. Thorin supposed that if it was a deer or horse, it would make an excellent gift to the elves. He would not waste the opportunity with such luck in his favor.

            But deer and horses did not wear clothes, no matter if they were torn and bloody. They did not have fragile, bruised skin or blonde curls that matted to their face under a multitude of liquids. And they certainly did not have hands that reached out for help or mouths that called for help and shaped names in the rain.

            “Thorin…” Bilbo gasped. His voice was as dry as parchment, and the blood that ran from his mouth a cruel red ink. The Hobbit shakily recited more of the company’s names, though the king’s was uttered more than most. Thorin realized that Bilbo could not see him; he was blindly calling for help in the hellish place.

            “I’m here, Bilbo,” Thorin soothed. He brushed his fingers through the hobbit’s hair. They were met with the resistance of unkempt, knotted curls.

            Bilbo shouted in pain when Thorin attempted to lift him. “Shh, shh.” The dwarf looked around wildly, anxious to bring his friend to safety yet unsure of how to do so without causing further harm. They were both drenched and shivering. Thorin feared it could be the end of Bilbo’s days.

            “I am truly sorry, Bilbo,” Thorin apologized quietly.

He set his jaw firmly and held his resignations before lifting Bilbo in his arms. The Hobbit shrieked in his suffering. The sounds slowly faded to whispers as Thorin struggled through the raging storm. The tunnels were unforgiving; twice he stumbled and almost dropped his burden. He began murmuring to Bilbo, humming, singing, and shouting, anything to keep him awake. His eyes were glazed and flesh pale. His face was hollow, his eyes sunken, and his body thin and listless.

The king ran as fast as he could, yelling with full breath from his lungs once he knew the elves could hear. Archers found him swiftly and began patiently administering orders to the dwarf. They led him to their sickroom, where he was instructed to deposit Bilbo on the table.

His hands were frozen on his companion’s body. He stared at a she-elf, dumb with shock. “You must release him,” the musical voice explained. “Master Dwarf, please,” she urged.

“Thorin.” The command was gentle. A firm hand rested on the king’s shoulder, jolting him from his madness. Bofur smiled weakly. “Let the elves fix the lad.”

The dwarf-king nodded and allowed the healers to pry Bilbo away from his thick fingers. They set to work swiftly and efficiently, stripping and binding and calling to one another in Elvish. Thorin scowled at his lack of understanding, but allowed them to work without interruption. Bilbo was fading fast.

Soon, the entire company joined Thorin in his vigil. Elrond arrived not long after with Gandalf, and they set about helping the other elves. Thorin wondered if Gandalf was using magic to heal the multitude of wounds that laced Bilbo’s flesh.

The Hobbit was covered in dark bruises and layers of dirt and blood. His skin was ashen, drawn up on his bones like cheap cloth. Some cuts were new and others old, but almost all were open. Some seemed infected. There were made by knife, sword, claw, and tooth. He was shivering and sweating all at once, writhing in his disease like a madman.

“They will pay for this,” Thorin decreed. He never took his eyes from Bilbo, but by instinct he knew the bearded heads were nodding their approval.

Time passed in strange increments. Minutes seemed like hours, and hours like minutes. The company partook in tea and soup to remain sated as they waited, but Thorin refused sustenance. Even the thought of food made him ill. His nephews urged him to eat, but upon his threats they stopped.

When the sun began to creep over the walls of Rivendell, most of the dwarves took their leave. The Elves finished their work soon after and turned to Thorin.

“He is stable, but any longer and he would have died. Valar smiles upon you, Thorin Oakenshield.”

Thorin grunted in reply, but after a nudge from Balin he muttered a quick word of gratitude. The Elves blinked at him, somewhat affronted. The king found himself apathetic to the beings.

“Go rest,” Elrond suggested. “Only time will tell us if he is to survive.”

“Then there is more to do!” Thorin argued.

He hurried over to the bed and loomed over Bilbo, afraid to touch him. His breathing was more regular, and cleaned up his skin was less sickly than Thorin had seen. Elrond was correct; the only possible remedy was to wait. He sat on a stool and stared at his friend, racked with guilt over his condition.

Thorin found his words after a long pause. “I will wait,” he told them.

“So be it,” Elrond bit back, unable to hide his frustration with the dwarf. “But know you have a long journey ahead of you.”

The wizard and elf departed together, deliberating in hushed tones. It was a strange contrast- the old, grey wizard with his loud staff and the immortal, fair elf who moved so silently. Thorin felt compelled to watch them before leaning back to Bilbo.

He placed his hand over the Hobbit’s, warmth surging through his heart as he noticed the difference in size. How ignorant of Bilbo he had been before! He drank in every aspect of the burglar now- the long eyelashes, the golden curls, the leathery feet. He vowed to never overlook those minute details again. The king intertwined his fingers with Bilbo’s before kissing the fingers gently.

And as the yellow sun rose above the safe haven, Thorin waited.

…

Day Five

Sweet music danced through the halls of Rivendell, enticing even the elves, who cared for no instruments but their own. The dwarves followed the sound happily, humming to the familiar tune. Each note was the chime of a hammer to precious metal, or the horns of feasts and dances in Erebor. They carried hope and fortune. The melody was a rare and gleeful sound, one they had not heard in quite some time.

“Bilbo must be awake,” Balin commented sleepily. Fíli and Kíli exchanged excited looks and took to the hospital wing at a sprint.

The elves were gathered around the bed in a circle, ensorcelled by the music. The princes shoved their way to the front of the ring. Their eyes did not immediately go to the Hobbit, but to their uncle. His hands were plucking gently at his harp, pulling Bilbo from his stupor and animating the entirety of Rivendell. He seemed oblivious to his spectators, and his gaze was fixed solely on his instrument or Bilbo.

When the music ended, the crowd released a breath it had not meant to hold. Fíli and Kíli smirked. That was the way of Thorin’s music, and they had had the pleasure of its sound since birth.

“Good morning, Mr. Baggins,” Thorin murmured. His voice was rough like he had not spoken in quite some time, nor slept for that matter. His hand twitched toward the Hobbit’s, but he restrained back to the harp.

The Elves shared a collective laugh almost as sweet as Thorin’s tune. They backed away to give Bilbo and Thorin room after the healers pronounced him safe. Some went away to complete morning duties, while others, like Elrond and a small brunette she-elf, stayed in the wing. The dwarves and Gandalf strayed closer, after all, for Bilbo was the fourteenth member of their company, and thus had become family to most.

The Hobbit sat up after the commotion, glad to be rid of the noise of voices but not of the harp. He looked to find the instrument, only to stop his eyes on the player.

“Thorin,” he breathed. The sound could not have been filled with any more love.

“I am glad that you are safe,” Thorin admitted. He seemed lost in a world with Bilbo alone, and the company made no sound in order to let them remain there.

Thorin reached out to cradle Bilbo’s face. The Hobbit was crying. “You are _safe_ ,” he repeated. “I swear that they will never harm you again.”

Bilbo nodded his head, afraid his only speech would be incoherent. “Thank you,” he finally managed. Thorin stroked his thumb lightly over the bruised skin to wipe his tears away.

“My âzyungâl, do not thank me. I allowed those monsters to take you.”

Bilbo looked at Thorin confusedly. “Az…?” he asked, his tongue unable to grasp the rough language.

Thorin flushed and looked down. Bilbo brought the king’s chin up with his small fingers and did not let go. Stubbornly, he asked again. “What does it mean?” He sat up to his full height, which was not entirely foreboding or impressive, and raised his eyebrows bemusedly. “I will wait,” he said. “There is not much else I _can_ do in this state.”

The king chuckled. He knew how intelligent Bilbo was, and how fond of languages. The Hobbit had most likely guessed the meaning but wanted Thorin to say it.

“Well, âzyungâl… It translates to ‘lover.’” He blushed again furiously.

Bilbo smiled, and truly, the sight was brighter and more magnificent than the Arkenstone. It took Thorin’s breath from him.

“Then, my lover, let me have a good morning kiss,” Bilbo said.

Thorin was happy to oblige.


End file.
